


Maybe We Do

by Queer_Lil_Fuqer



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Also a touch of fluff at the end, Emotionally and Sexually Frustrated Clarke, F/F, Finn is a dick, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this instead of working on my other series, Lexa bottoms Clarke every time, Protective Lexa, Then smut, but there's no surprise there, everyone else is more background than anything, i guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 23:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16607222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queer_Lil_Fuqer/pseuds/Queer_Lil_Fuqer
Summary: Not a lot of plot, but low key graphic designers. Lots of third person omniscient on both Clarke's and Lexa's thoughts. Really, I just wanted to write about these two perfect babes and hit a writer's block on my main work.Also, my mind is broken so don’t expect much





	Maybe We Do

**Author's Note:**

> Hurt/Comfort, I guess, a little bit of violence. Fluff???? I don't know, it's just half-assed trash, really.
> 
> Enjoy?

Clarke burst into her apartment, door banging shut, and stormed into her room, dropping her bag rather unceremoniously on her sketching armchair.  
How dare she?  
How dare Lexa, whose full name everyone assumed to be Alexandria but was, in truth, far more traditional, very well archaic - Alexein. Lexa, who came off so reserved, so soft spoken, but was rather opinionated and prone to oh-so-civilly debate anything and everything. Lexa, who didn’t even have two years on Clark, who started on the same fucking date, but so focused and determined she already made head of the photography department. Lexa, who drove the same plain sedan she bought well used upon high school graduation, or so she had been told when she asked. Lexa, who went to Friday happy hour with the rest of their coworkers, but only ever had one drink, one bottle of Two Hearted Ale (Clarke tried it once and had to admit it wasn’t the worst half-ass hop water she’d tasted; she preferred the Adios, Motherfucker, a vividly blue drink that had her pleasantly tipsy at one, and well on her way to “adios” at four).  
How dare she?  
Lexa wasn’t cold or off putting, but her face resided primarily between Deep In Thought and Resting Bitch Face. Her hair was never the same twice, always done up in delicate braids that set her apart in the most minute and innocent of ways. She wore modest, natural makeup and always dressed smartly, despite it not being a requirement, even at her level. Always formal but sensible shoes (where she found such a specific combination, Clarke could never guess), slacks or a pencil skirt, and a button front shirt with a vest, tie, sweater, blazer, or, occasionally, unadorned. Clarke vividly remembered the time she wore suspenders.  
How dare Lexa do this to her?  
The two were so different, physically, socially, and personally. Clarke’s name was traditional too, yes, but not in the sense of Lexa’s. Her blond hair was bright and drew attention no matter what she tried. Her wardrobe ranged widely, from summer dresses to ripped jeggings to short, leather skirts to joggers to dyed jeans. She never wore anything that would be considered inappropriate to work, she just dressed casually. She rode a vintage Norton Dominator she had dreamed of for years, searching for the perfect one. She was openly expressive, smiling and frowning and laughing easily and fully. She enjoyed her position as a visual journalist and felt content in the field with no burning desire to ascend the chain of command. She pulled people to her, subconsciously and not, building a support system through emotional bonding; as far as Clarke knew, Lexa’s “friendships” were more amicable professional relationships stemming from mutual respect and workplace compatibility. It wasn’t a bad thing, but Clarke did feel a little sad that they seemed to be her closest friends.  
How dare she?  
How dare Lexa draw her in like this. How dare she persuade Clarke to learn all this, and without uttering an urging word to do so. How dare she captivate her like this.  
How dare she?  
They were all sitting at their usual booth in the east corner of the back wall, laughing and chatting and drinking, as they usually spent happy hour. Lexa sat next to her this time, a fairly common occurrence, and conversation had turned to ethics, morals, and the ultimate purpose of life. They aligned on most things, but Lexa stood staunch in the belief that life should be centered on one’s professional and academic achievements, where Clarke believed that life was less about “just surviving” and more about “actually living.” She had just said “Don’t we deserve better than that?” when Lexa paused for a beat, staring deep into her eyes and responding “Maybe we do.”  
How dare she do that?  
Because next thing she knew, Lexa’s hand was cradling her just below her left ear, lips gently but firmly capturing hers.  
How dare she?  
Clarke stilled for a moment, brain blank, then melted into it.  
How dare she?  
That had been her first coherent thought once her mind rebooted, and she pulled away, jarred. No one else in the group seemed to notice, but Lexa straightened, withdrawing physically and mentally, eyes dulling as walls came up behind them. She stood suddenly and excused herself, briskly making her way to the door.  
How dare she?  
After a few more stunned and frozen seconds, Clarke burst from her seat and chased the brunette to where she was fumbling with keys at her car door. Her habit of having a single drink usually left her as the obvious and willing designated driver, so her driving home didn’t concern Clarke. The blonde called out to her several times, to no avail, before reaching the other just as she managed to unlock her door.  
How dare she?  
Clarke had grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around, mouth already open to speak, but stopped at the solitary tear trailing down the cheek in front of her.  
How dare she?  
Lexa’s voice had never sounded so small and broken as she stepped back. “It’s ok; I’m sorry.”  
How dare she?  
Clarke could only stare, conflicted, as the woman left the small parking lot, a sea of emotions warring inside.  
How dare she?  
Several concerned glances greeted her as she returned to the booth, but Clarke waved them off.  
She took a cab home that night, splitting it with Octavia and her brother Bellamy, barely remembering to bid them good night.  
The slam of the cab door shook her from her dazed state, wakening anger.  
That brought her to where she was now pacing in her bedroom.  
How dare Lexa do this to her?  
How dare she do that - kiss her - then run off with hardly a word? How dare she never say anything to convey her interest before then?  
Unable contain all the energy she had coursing through her, Clarke moved to the living room, where she had a canvas out - really a frame with coarse paper stretched across it. She grabbed a block of charcoal, preferring the raw product to the more common wrapped pencils, and picked up where she had left off.  
But even that did not help. After almost forty-five minutes of attempting to add on to what she already had, Clarke gave up with a huff. She moved on to cooking, madly chopping and stirring and baking and frying until she had meals for a week. At that, she decided she had better eat (having had a beer and two of her blue drinks at the bar) and sat down to a small serving of waffles and several large glasses of water.  
Her thoughts still refused to calm entirely, still very much active, so despite the late hour, she pulled on a hoodie and left for a walk.  
The cool evening air was surprisingly refreshing, and Clarke didn’t realize she had needed it until she stepped outside. There was a park ten minutes away on foot, and Clarke decided it was as good a destination as any. She spent over an hour walking circles in said park, trying to organize what she was feeling. It was comforting to pass the unusual number of night joggers and dog walkers, and even a police officer. Eventually, a particularly violent shiver snapped her back to reality. Checking her phone, she was startled to find it was just after midnight, with six texts from O, three from Bell, and even one from Raven, the bartender.  
Nothing from Lexa.  
Clarke shoved her phone back into her pocket with a scowl, figuring she’d tell them she had gone right to sleep. She cared about them, but she knew that right then wouldn’t be the best time to bring it up to them. Not yet.  
The route home was brightly lit with the occasional car, but that didn’t slow Clarke’s pace as she made her way back.  
Her apartment building had just come into sight, tugging a sigh of relief from her, when a figure stepped from the shadows of an alleyway not fifteen feet in front of her.  
She didn’t want to know who it was because she had a pretty good idea, but didn’t want to be right. As the silhouette stepped closer and into the light of a street lamp, Clarke knew she would not be so lucky.  
“I was hoping to see you tonight, Princess.” The slurred voice grated against her ears and Clarke couldn’t help but grimace.  
“Fuck off, Finn,” she spat, trying to sound strong, only the slightest of wavers in her retort. “Get over yourself and fuck the fuck off.”  
“No, babe-” the man (man-child, really) lurched forward clumsily but she still took several steps backwards, fumbling for her keys. Yanking them from her pocket, she slipped her fingers through the eyes of her cat keychain, the ears pointed to act as slightly classier, more feminine version of brass knuckles.  
“Back the hell off,” she snarled, but she had already lost ground, physically and psychologically, and her voice was definitely trembling now.  
Finn advanced slower this time, Clarke clenching the keychain and determined not to retreat anymore. “Look, I’m sorry,” he tried. “I didn’t tell you about Raven, but it was because I love you.”  
Never had anyone looked so pitiful, Clarke thought. His clothes and face were grungey and his eyes were glazed with whatever drug it was he had chosen tonight. In those eyes, though, were miserable pleading, tainted with despair and laden with desperation.  
“I was going to leave her for you, Princess, I swear.”  
“Shove it,” she snapped. “I should have left you sooner, but I can’t save everyone, especially if they aren’t worth saving.”  
“Babe,” Finn whined, stumbling forward again, nearly within arms reach now, “I said I’m sorry. I’ll change, you’ll see, I promise I’ll change.”  
“You?” she scoffed. “Finn, you went to the same pizza shop for a month after that health safety warning before they were shut down. If you can’t change for something as simple as that, how can anyone think you’d change everything you’d need to for me to even consider taking you back?”  
If it were almost anyone else, Clarke would have stopped at his tears, but she felt no pity for him. The time for that had long passed.  
“Please, Clarke, I’m so sorry! I’m nothing without you. I need you in my life.”  
“Then you should have thought about that a long time ago,” she snorted.  
She had no time for this, but even emaciated as he was, Clarke was sure Finn could do some damage if provoked.  
Mind racing and fist flexing in the keyring, Clarke thought of something.  
“Look,” she began. “If you can go cold turkey for six full months, then we can talk.”  
She would have said more, but she knew if she made it seem too impossible for him, he wouldn’t bite.  
It did work, though. He perked up, pout flipping into a sloppy grin.  
“Really?” he asked. “You’ll take me back if I’m clean for six months?”  
“Maybe,” she clarified. “I can’t and won’t promise anything, but as soon as you’re clean for six consecutive months, we’ll see.”  
No harm, no foul, she figured, having no faith that he would be able to complete the task, at least in a time frame in which he would remember her half-hearted deal.  
Unfortunately, it stopped working.  
“No,” he scowled. “Clarke, you have to take me back. You have to. You made a big mistake dumping me, and now a bigger mistake by trying to trick me.”  
He was advancing now, and Clarke realized she had never truly felt fear until that moment.  
All at once, he lunged at her and she lashed out, the ears of her keychain landing on and sticking in his cheek. It hadn’t prevented him latching onto her, pulling them both to the ground, howling. She freed the ears and tried to land another hit, but Finn grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the sidewalk, right arm sandwiched between them with his other wrapped around her, keeping her in place. Blood from his wound dripped onto her forehead, even as she turn to avoid it.  
Suddenly, his face softened and his eyes dulled, scowl fading.  
“I’ll treat you better, I promise,” he muttered, pressing his lips against hers.  
She fought. By god, she fought. He was just stronger and heavier.  
Panic was about to overcome her when the weight that was her aggressor disappeared. Disoriented, Clarke clambered to her feet to find her savior beating Finn, holding him by the front of his shirt and mercilessly wailing on him. After a minute or two, the sobbing man-child was tossed on his back.  
“Don’t ever come near her again. Don’t ask about her, don’t look for her, and don’t you dare touch her. You will not be found within a mile radius of her house or, so help me god, I will find you, and I will kill you. Is that simple enough for you to understand?”  
The one who had intervened was seething, body rigid and heaving with exertion, maybe more so with anger.  
The bloodied and whimpering Finn fervently nodded his head as he scrambled out of sight.  
Clarke ventured a step forward, reaching her left hand forward before remembering the keychain still there. She must have made a small sound as she retracted her hand to pull it off because her savior turned, all tension draining at once.  
“Hey, hey,” she said. “It’s ok, you’re safe, I’ve got you.”  
An arm encircled her waist on one side, and Clarke vaguely registered her knees going out.  
“Lexa?” Her tongue felt heavy and her jaw stiff while her thoughts had yet to settle.  
“I’m here, you’re safe,” she repeated.  
Clarke didn’t remember the walk to her apartment, but then Lexa was placing a hot cup of tea in her hands as she sat on her sketching armchair. She crouched in front of her and held a warm washcloth to dab at the drying blood.  
“I know you’re a coffee person,” Lexa began, “but it’s late and I thought it wouldn’t be the best choice right now. I didn’t know what tea you prefer, but lemon balm tea is supposed to help with stress, and I had one in my bag, so I made a cup for you and-”  
“Wait,” Clarke cut her off. “You had a tea bag. In your purse?”  
Lexa abandoned her now-clean features to squirm all the harder.  
“Uh, yes, just for, you know… emergencies?”  
There was a beat of silence, then Clarke burst out laughing. Part of it was at the absurdity of someone - overly professional Lexa, of all people, too - having “emergency tea,” but part in reaction to the Finn incident.  
“Lexa Woods, Keeper of Emergen-teas.”  
Here, her tears turned from humor to belatedly processed terror, the full force of her emotions hitting her at once. Unsure of where they stood at the moment, Lexa crouched beside her, placing the cup of tea on the nearby table and filling Clarke’s hands with hers. Almost immediately, Clarke pulled her closer, tugging her onto her lap and clutching her tightly. Lexa sat awkwardly for a moment, but Clarke squeezed harder and that was all the encouragement she needed to tenderly engulf the blonde. She stroked her hair and hummed until the sobs subsided, until they stopped altogether, until breathing evened out and the grip on her slackened.  
“Don’t stop.”  
Clarke’s voice was muffled from where it was buried in Lexa’s chest, but it was clear as ever to her ears.  
“Don’t stop what?”  
“Humming,” was the immediate reply as the speaker sat back. “I like it.”  
Butterflies somersaulted in her stomach, but she just smiled softly. “Drink some tea, first.”  
This coaxed a watery smile and bob of the head, the brunette retrieving the cup once more. With blue eyes closed and the full lips never far from the rim of the tea cup, Lexa began her tuneless humming again, carding her fingers through blonde waves.  
“Will you stay?”  
This time, Lexa swore she had imagined the whisper, projecting her wishes to the point of hallucinations.  
She stopped humming, bringing her hand to rest at the base of the woman’s skull.  
“Please,” Clarke opened her eyes, which were still damp. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”  
Lexa has never felt so giddy or conflicted at the same time. “Are you sure?” she asked with a furrowed brow. “I don’t want to over step or intrude or anything.”  
“Lexa.” The delicate voice cracked so heartbreakingly she gave in without further prompting. Taking the cup, again, she stood and lifted a surprised Clarke, whose arms instinctively wrapped around her neck. Walking as smoothly as possible, Lexa brought them both to the bedroom, gently depositing her precious cargo on the bed; Clarke didn’t let go.  
“Stay,” she repeated. Hesitating a moment too long, Lexa found herself in the bed, laying face to face with the blonde. Clarke’s eyes had closed again, but Lexa kept her sight trained on the lids, waiting for them to open.  
“I’m still mad at you, you know,” Clarke grumbled, frowning.  
Lexa started flexing her hands. “Ah, yes, right. About that…” Clarke’s eyes slowly opened, leaving her feeling more vulnerable than before. “I- I’m sorry,” she finally settled on. “I didn’t mean to spring myself on you like that.”  
“Why didn’t you say something?” the blonde demanded. “Why didn’t you mention you were interested in me?”  
Metaphorically sinking into the bed, Lexa managed, “I didn’t think you’d be interested in me, a woman.”  
With a snort, Clarke brought a hand to cradle Lexa’s jaw, thumb stroking her cheek.  
“I’m very bi,” she said, amused. “I thought everyone in the office knew that?”  
“Oh,” was all Lexa could think to say.  
“Honestly,” Clarke scooted closer, resting their foreheads together, “I guess it’s hypocritical of me to be mad.”  
“Oh?” Lexa echoed herself.  
“Yeah.” Her words were beginning to slur with exhaustion. “I never said anything, either.”  
“You mean…?”  
With a chuckle, Clarke drew herself flush with her bedmate. “You’re just so stoic at work. I’ve admired you since we first met, only falling harder with time.”  
Her whirlwind of emotions caused a short circuit, tripped by the most delicate kiss of all time. She chased its retreat, desperate for more contact and was greeted with enthusiasm.  
They spent the rest of the night clinging to each other, whispering and giggling, interrupted by kisses, falling asleep as the sun rose.


End file.
